The Wistful Dinner
The mold is wrong, Nino, you know it is wrong, and the heat in this room is already too much for your skin to hold. Cesare stood by the door, his back to the kiln, watching the sweat bead on Nino’s forehead and run into the hollows of his neck, a clear, viscous line that caught the orange glow of the furnace and turned it into something bright and dangerous. Nino did not turn to look at him; he...
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